Redemption
by Spiritus Scriptor
Summary: A short view into Erik's psyche outlining the events of the book. Nothing impressive, mostly drabble.


**Just an odd little scene that popped into my head as I was working on the outline for another story. It's just a weird sort of Leroux-based angsty synopsis thing.**

**Hope you like it!**

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I trust, if you are reading this, that you are familiar with the story of the famous Opera Ghost and his love, Christine Daae. A young and radiant beauty was she who loved a corpse and resurrected his soul, granting him more happiness than the world could ever offer. He, a poor excuse for a man, bent on chaos and destruction if he could not have her. Indeed, he would have committed murder for her. Murder in its worst form—he would have killed all who inhabited the Opera Populaire that night, patrons and performers alike. All for her. Doubtless she would not be impressed—she, in fact, hated him for what he had done, and yet forgave him, giving him the strength to set her free.

How beautiful is a songbird in a gilded cage, but even he realized that she was not happy. How could she be, trapped with one such as him? But in her darkness, she gave him so much light, and so he held her prisoner. He could almost feel her spirit waning, day by day, and so he let her go. Oh, not forever, of course, but for a short while, back up into the world of sunlight and laughter—sunlight which he'd never see, laughter which he'd never share. He hated to look at them, to see their leering faces. But for her, he would do it. He would venture into the world of men, if only to assure her safety.

And there she was, talking to that damned boy. A childhood friend, she assured him, nothing more. But there they stood, hand in hand, so close they were nearly breathing down each other's necks. And then she ran. His angel, his Christine, running away from him. How heartless, he thought, how cruel. What childish game was this, that she would run away from the man she called her Angel of Music, away with this dandy who certainly had other women vying for his attention everywhere he turned? He had seen them, oh yes. The ladies who practically clawed at the young Vicomte, eager to share in his affections. But the boy only had eyes for _his _Christine, knowing full well she belonged to another, having been _warned_ never to speak to her again. They were young. They were infatuated. And her Angel was furious. This must not be. She was his, and his alone.

And so he sought his revenge.

But wait—what was this? The Daroga had come with him, to seek out his old friend Erik. But they were friends no longer. They had severed those ties long ago. And so he would just have to die alongside his young companion.

Christine pleaded for their release—he was disgusted with himself now for what he had done to her. How could he have bound his love at her delicate little wrists, tied to a chair, bleeding from self-inflicted concussion yet frantically trying to signal her rescuers in the torture chamber. Yes, she had given herself those wounds. She would truly rather die than be with him. He knew that.

No matter, they would all die together. And he would play their requiem. What a magnificent Mass of death it would be! Thousands would be buried with him in his tomb of flames, most importantly his angel. And he would not be in death what he had been in life—alone.

But it was a kiss, a single kiss that broke the spell and set his songbird free. He knew, after all, that she would not share in Hell's eternal flames with him. Oh, she was far too good and pure for that! He could not kill her. It would bring no reward.

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Dear reader, I beg you bear me no ill will, for I am not what I was. Yes, in the last days of my life I have sought out redemption for my crimes. I, who swore my vows to the Devil long ago, have appealed to God and begged for His infinite mercy. Is it not true that He forgives even the most wretched of men? I pray that He may grant His grace to me, if only so I may see my angel once again. Perhaps on Judgment Day we shall meet again…and she will know what I have done for her.

It is my fondest hope. Surely you will not deny me that? Wretched, hated creature I may be, I can still hope. Here, in my own mind, there are no cruel faces to mock me, no bars to hold me in. And for that I am most thankful.

I remain, dear reader, your obedient servant—

O.G.

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**This was meant as a oneshot, but it could end up being multi-chapter.**

**Review and tell me what you think!**


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